Like Always
by KKBELVIS
Summary: The boys go undercover and hunt a ghost inside Walmart. Set early season one. Sam shut his eyes, clenched his jaw, bracing himself for -- darkness -- waiting to hit bottom.
1. Chapter 1

LIKE ALWAYS

By: Karen B.

Summary: The boys go undercover and hunt a ghost inside Walmart. Set early season one.

Rated: A mix of humor, hurt Sam, and brutally handsome, dashing, hero Dean. Guess I'm a skipping record -- a what? A skipping record.

Disclaimer: Like always…not the owner…just the dreamer.

Thank you ever kindly for your time in reading!

Vaya Con Dios,

Karen

* * *

Paper, scissors, rock had become more than a simple childhood game of luck and chance, but a competitive way of life. As kids,their dad was gone a lot of the time, leaving Dean in charge; until Sam had grown too big for his britches, bucking management. The simple game was turned into a vital decision making tool, a weapon taken seriously -- Winchester law. A fair and square way to end any and all squabbles. Who's turn to do dishes. Who got to make a milk run. Who took out the trash? Lit the match. Dug the grave. Scarfed down the last bowl of Lucky Charms.

Sam was observant.

Dean predictable -- scissors almost always his opening move.

Sam figured Dean secretly wished his fingers were scissors -- as he was always trying to get Sam to cut his hair.

It'd taken eight months of hard study when he was a kid, but Sam had learned how to beat Dean at the game -- when he wanted to. He'd gotten so good, even when big brother tried to mix it up, Sam could predict what Dean was about to throw that split second before forming the shape. Sam was the paper, scissors, rock king. Only once-in-a-while, out of brotherly courtesy, and his own want - of course -- did he allow Dean to win.

But not this time. Not this day. The sky was blue and the sun shined warm, but on this day, something had gone seriously wrong.

Everything started off like always. Sam had spoken the sanctified words.

'On three…one, two, three.'

And like always, the tempo of their fists matched the count.

And like always, Sam threw rock.

And like always Dean threw -- paper?

What the shit?

Where'd that come from?

It was a long fall for Sam off his kingly thrown, Dean's all to easy smile burning a hole in Sam's ego.

"Two words for you, Sammy, bag boy."

"One word for you, Dean," Sam whined. "Jerk."

Dean pointed a finger to himself. 'Winner,' he silently mouthed. Poking Sam in the chest.. "L…l…looooser." Dean drew the word out, using his best Jim Carry impersonation, still flashing an 'eternal sunshine' smile

When life handed out lemons -- Sam sucked them.

"Fine." Sam reluctantly headed inside the Super Walmart to grab two job applications, sour lemon written all over is face.

* * *

Peach Springs Arizona was just 'peachy' according to Dean. Three hundred and sixty-seven males. Three hundred and eighty-five females. 6.87 square miles. One hundred and sixty-six houses. Four restaurants. Two bars, and one Frontier Motel.

Up until recently, residence only had one grocery store, until Walmart took over the empty field at the edge of town. Shop at your own risk -- quickly becoming the stores new motto. Peach Spring's population seemingly increased by one. An annoyingly, creepy ghost floating up and down the fully stocked aisles. Scaring off customers. Destroying merchandise. Killing business, but so far nothing else.

If ghost hunting and supernatural things had an off season -- this was it. The brothers were in search of a job. Not much to search for. Sam came across three possibles.

Alligators in New York's sewers. John 'Bonzo' Bonham's face appearing on a rock in Utah, like the Virgin Mary sighted on a piece of colored glass or Jesus on a grilled cheese sandwich. Last, but not least, was the small town's Walmart ghost. Dean knew Bonzo was well-and-truly dead -- nix that. Sam had tossed for alligators in the sewers, but in the end, Walmart took the crust on the pie.

Dean had said if the job turned out to be a hoax, they'd stock up on supplies and finally take that trip to the Grand Canyon.

* * *

Dressed in Khaki pants and a blue Walmart apron complete with nametag, Sam juggled groceries; squirming under the scrutiny of the latest shopper to brave the store. A little, Italian, grandmotherly type. With big, brown, cow-eyes set behind black, horn rimmed glasses and long silver hair that swooped up into a tight bun. Sam estimated her to be around eighty-one. She was tiny, four foot three at best, weighing her age at least.

"Whoops," she said, tottering into Sam, obviously on purpose, watching as he bagged her items. "I'm such an old fuddy-duddy. Can't seem to keep my balance." She tottered again, hand reaching up to caress Sam's chest, obvously feigning support.

Sam looked for help from the balding cashier, Paul, who was humming some old forties tune.

"You're on your own, sonny boy," Paul grumbled, keeping his head down. "Don't want no part of your monkey business. Had my share of ice cream scoops falling to the dust." Paul went back to scanning and humming.

"I love ice cream." The elderly woman smiled. "Fires up my engine."

"What?" Sam cocked his head in confusion. "Ice cream…" Sam's cell rang -- saved by the bell.

"Excuse me," Sam politely said, backing away reaching for his cell with one hand, still bagging items with the other.

He flipped the phone open. "What?" he asked, irritably.

"It's me."

"It's always you," Sam ground between his teeth. "It was you when that kid threw up oatmeal in aisle four. It was you when I chased down a frozen turkey in a runaway cart. It was you when the delivery guy busted a crate full of rotten eggs, and it was you who plotted that whole..." Sam paused. "Ladies personals incident."

"You mean Tampax Tampons," Dean chuckled. Sam cringed at the word, felt his face flush. "Yep, all me," Dean snorted. "And it's me now, too. How's it hanging, errand bitch?"

"I'll tell you how's it hang…" Sam frowned. "I'm a grocery clerk, Dean." Sam pinned the phone between ear and shoulder freeing his hands. Grandmother's sure bought a lot of food.

"Whatever you want to believe, Sammy," Dean's high-pitched laughter pierced Sam's ear.

"I prefer plastic, young man." Grandma batted her big, brown eyes at him playfully.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Where's the beef, Sam?" More insidious laughing. "You get it, Sam, need me to explain. You know, you and grandma might want to get a roo…"

"Don't. Just don't." Sam pinned the phone tighter against his ear, reaching for a carton of cage-free eggs. "You suck," Sam said, keeping his voice low. "I should be security, not you."

"I won, if you recall, rock boy... fair and square."

"Whatever, Scissorhands."

"Dude, you are not about to put her canned peas on top of her eggs," Dean scolded.

"Um, really, Dean?" Sam glanced up at the closest security camera, sending Dean the silent 'if looks killed' stare. "'Cause you could give me a break," Sam whispered under his breath, bagging the peas in a separate bag.

"No breaks," Dean deadpanned.

"Thank you, sweetie," the little, Italian Grandma said, using a lavishing tone. "This may sound cliché, but you do remind me of my fourth husband, Clyde."

"More like, Bonnie," Dean belly laughed in Sam's ear.

"He was a cantankerous old coot…loved to ride the horse into the barn every night."

"I don't understand, ma'am," Sam said, not looking up, feeling himself turning three shades of pink.

"What's not to understand, Sam. Grandma speaks fluent sex. Ha!"

"Shut up!" Sam hissed into the phone.

"Excuse me, young man?" Grandma frowned.

"So…sorry, not you, ma'am, uptight boss." Sam pointed at the cell, giving the elderly lady a weak smile as he bagged a bottle of prune juice.

"Guess the older generation goes for that unwashed hair look," Dean laughed like an idiot.

"Are you having fun?" Sam huffed, cautiously peering up through his bangs to see if he was still being ogled by grandma -- he was.

"Not yet," Dean said with satisfactory. "Just getting started."

"Bite me." Sam stuffed a box of Polident into a bag, ducking back to hide behind his hair.

"Dangerous job, Sammy, bagging food for horny grandmothers…"

"Dean," Sam tsked with disgust.

Snickering, Dean said, "'Bout the toughest thing you've ever done on a job, huh, bro?"

"Yeah, Dean…" Sam's tone, full of sarcasm. "I had to go through special forces training," he growled, bagging the elderly ladies cucumbers.

"Hope you paid attention in Jedi knight school, young Winchester, you sure as hell want to know what you're doing when you handle one of those babies," Dean cackled. "That's no light saber she's got there."

"Dean…just…" Sam huffed. "Come on!"

"My, what big muscles you have." Grandma brown eyes judged his body -- head to toe.

"The better to hold you with, my dear." Crazy laughter shot like wildfire through Sam's brain.

"Um…'eh…" Sam could feel his face turn from pink to red. "Th…thank you, ma'am"

"You're a real smooth, operator, pal."

"Dean," Sam ground out. "Stop." He half-turned cupping his hand around the phone and whispering, "Just shut up already, you're supposed to be watching out for our…" Sam searched for the right word. "Our shoplifter. So what have you got?" Sam asked, bagging the last of Grandma's groceries and glancing at another well-placed security camera. If looks really could kill -- Sam would be sitting in a courtroom chair facing twenty-five to life.

"Don't give me that look, bro. I'm bored sitting up here alone. Besides, I'm all over this secret James Bond stuff. You should see what goes on in ladies lingerie, dude." Evil laughter.

"And you're point, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes.

"What about my point?"

"Get to it. I got work to do."

"Oh, bag boy," The elderly lady sweetly called.

Sam cringed, turning to face the tiny woman and quickly plastering a dimpled smile in place. "Yes, mama?"

"Go get her, tiger."

"Could you please help me out to the car with my groceries?"

"Yes, ma'am." Phone in one hand, handlebar in the other, Sam pushed the cart toward the exit.

"Sam, look, I got nothing so far." Dean finally all business. "Place is your typical Walmart. Prices dropping left and right -- no ghost droppings anywhere. I have the security codes, we'll run the same drill we always do. Give the place one more good sweep tonight when the store is closed. If we still come up with a big, fat nil…"

"We bounce," Sam finished, giving a quick glance at his watch, lunch time.

"Oh, bag boy." The little, old lady stepped up beside Sam, one wrinkled hand gently laying over his. "I can help you push."

"I got it, ma'am, and please, you can call me, Sam."

"Oh, Sam..."

"Don't hurt yourself, bag boy. Ha!"

Click.

Sam grumbled under his breath, flipping his phone shut, and stuffing the cell back into his pocket.

"…Has anyone ever told you, you look like a celebrity?" Grandma smiled up at him, showing every one of her perfectly, pearly dentures.

No ma'am," Sam said respectfully, pushing her cart toward the automatic doors.

"You're very tall." The Italian lady was small, but sure could keep pace with Sam's long strides, walking closely next to him.

"Yes, 'm." Little old ladies sure were cute.

"And gorgeous," she said.

Sam blushed -- again.

"But, then so am I." She poked him in the ribs with a bony finger and winked.

"Yes, ma'am." Sam smiled genuinely.

"Mrs. Giovanni."

"Yes, Mrs. Gio…"

"I'd rather you called me, Hazel, like your eyes."

Yes, Haz…'eh…" Sam pushed a hand through his hair, nervously. "Mrs…uh…ma'am."

He could still feel Dean's hurricane force glare. Could still hear his brother's Looney Tune, Daffy Duck laughter in his head. Sam glanced over his shoulder, peering up at yet another security camera. Passing through the automatic doors to the parking lot, Sam's middle finger shot up behind his back -- flipping Dean off.

* * *

They walked in step and side-by-side down aisle six -- snack foods. The handheld EMF meter in Sam's hand -- quiet.

"So, did you get it?" Dean asked, shining his flashlight along the shelf of snacks. "There you are." He reached out and snagged a bag of Cheetos, not missing a stride.

"Get what?" Sam asked, never taking his eyes off the meter.

"You know what." Dean ripped the bag wide-open, digging a hand in and stuffing his mouth full. "Her number."

"Those things smell like sweaty feet," Sam said in disgust.

"Uhhuh." Dean munched happily.

"You need to pay for those, Dean," Sam muttered dryly, waving the EMF back and forth in front of him. "Who's number?"

"Hazel's," Dean said bluntly, munching another mouthful of Cheetos. "Like your eyes,' he mumbled around mushy, wet orange bits.

"Would you give it up, already?" Sam shot Dean that same twenty-five to life, look.

"No." Dean smiled big, nodding his head up and down in that sick sort of 'Dean' way. "But you should, Sammy…you know… give it up." Dean batted his eyelashes. "Ha!"

"You suck," Sam grumbled.

Twenty-five to life was looking better all the time, and there was always the possibility of parole. Dean needed to back off on the whole 'Hazel' thing. Sure, the little Italian woman was sweet, but she was forty times Sam's senior. Besides, Sam wasn't into wild times even with someone his age. He had morals. He had couth. He had a score to settle with the thing that killed Jess.

"You and her, Sammy, could have yourselves some wild times."

"Dean," Sam sighed. "Focus." Sam went back to concentrating on the meter. "And don't forget to pay for those on our way out." So he was a goody two-shoes. So. Someone in the partnership needed to be.

"Don't forget to pay for those on your way out," Dean parroted. "Goody two-shoes."

They strolled past the candy section.

"No," Sam ordered, just as five-fingered Dean reached to lift a bag of Peanut M&M's.

"Bro, you're just mad because we skipped over the princess aisle," Dean griped, hand falling to his side.

"Right," Sam groaned.

They wandered up and down the aisles. Dean eyed the Hot Wheels in the toy section, Sam the hunting knives in Sporting Goods. They were just about to head over to Cosmetics, when the lights on the device went off. Sam had never seen readings so strong, the instrument in his hand going completely nu…

"Nuts!" Dean's loud voice gave Sam a jolt. "Buckets full! I've never seen readings so strong."

Sam heaved a sigh, they really needed to stay out of each other's heads.

"Son of a friggin' bitch." Dean shoved the open bag of Cheetos onto a shelf, shouldering his salt gun, eyes darting all around.

"What? Dean, what? You look freaked out."

"Someone just whispered in my ear. I'd say that's cause to freak out, Sam, don't you?"

"What'd they say?"

"Get out." Dean shrugged.

"Get out?" Sam tilted his head to one side. " You mean like in the movies, 'get out'? A ghost who likes cliché's, Dean? Crap!" Sam spun around, but there was nothing there. "It just whispered in my ear, too. Dean It knows where hunting it."

The floor rumbled and cracks suddenly started to appear on the floor, walls, then the ceiling. The spirit, consumed with rage, obviously having other plans for them.

"Sam, I think we're dealing with a pretty heavy-duty spirit here. "I want you to go back to the car. Think we might need to purify the whole store. We need those hex bags."

"Dean, I don't think…"

"Sam, go!"

No time for paper, sissors, rock, Sam took off. He'd just reached the end of the aisle when he hit a cold spot. Instinctively he spun around, just as a large chunk of plaster fell behind him.

"Crap!" He jolted involuntarily, trying not to think of how badly that would have hurt had he taken that last step. "Dean, what's going on?"

Dean's back was to him, salt gun raised and ready in one hand, flashlight beam bouncing all around in the other.

"Sam," he shouted over his shoulder. "Get out of here, now! That's an order, man!"

Overhead lights flickered on and off. The cracks growing bigger, the building shaking and rumbling -- earthquake style. Fluorescent lights above shimmied and glass bulbs popped, falling down like rain.

"Not leaving yo…" Somthing smacked him in the head. Sam's knees nearly buckled, the EMF falling to the floor, but he remained standing, swaying on his feet. He winked up at Dean. Dazed, dizzy, something wet and slick sliding down the side of his face.

"Sam!" Dean spun around facing Sam, an angry snarl curling his lip. "I said… get the hell outta…you're bleeding." Dean raced toward him.

Before Dean could get to him, before Sam could raise a hand or take in his next breath…cold as stone hands gripped Sam by his neck, lifting him off his feet and slamming his back into a nearby shelf.

"D'n," he called out, choking for breath.

Sam flexed his fingers, desperate to reach up and dislodge the invisible, cold squeezing his neck. Who knew black, pin-sized dots could be so strong -- paralyzing his efforts. Sam's head was throbbing, heart pounding, lungs swelling with unreleased air.

"Son of a bitch! Leave him alone!" Sam heard the 'do or die' scramble of Dean's boots pounding his way.

Dean hollered something else in a horrified tone that Sam's deprived brain couldn't understand. He titled his head down only a fraction of an inch. Between the floating pinpricks, Sam watched as the floor beneath his dangling feet opened wider, deeper, edges jagged. Shelves full of toys and other store items tumbled into the hole, shooting thick puffs of dust clouds and fragments back upward when they hit bottom.

"Ung," Sam gasped, feet kicking, fingers fumbling to escape the invisible choke-hold.

They always did live on the edge -- but this?

"Noooo!" Dean screamed firing off a couple rounds.

Bits of salt dust hit Sam in the face. He wished the cold fingers would release him, he needed to call out to his brother, needed to take in a breath. Careful what you wish for. Sam immediately wanted to take that wish back as he was released. He sucked in one breath, blindly reaching out for Dean, grappling at nothing but air -- floating.

Shit, he wasn't floating, he was falling. Aware enough to know there was nothing around he could grab hold of. Other store objects falling with him -- some hitting him square. As if he'd been sucked into a bad dream, everything slowed, like he wasn't even in his body. Sam clenched his jaw, bracing himself for -- darkness -- waiting to hit bottom.

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

LIKE ALWAYS

Summary: Conclusion

Thank you most sincerely for reading my little dream.

Karen.

* * *

Little details came to Sam in small bursts of pain. He got the feeling he was in a tight place. Boxed in. Sam grimaced, wherever he was it smelled like sweaty feet, and cat piss. Or maybe the scent was more like that gross pickled herring crap his dad always ate out of a can. He cracked open his eyes ever so slightly. He was half-sitting up, shoulder blades pressed against something cold and hard. Stone? Maybe metal. He couldn't be sure. He was sure of one thing. He was breathing heavy, heart whooshing in and out of his ears -- still alive -- borderline consciousness.

"Sam?" An echoey voice called his name from very far away. "Sammy." There it was again.

He turned toward the voice. There was nothing but blackness -- something wet dripping from his hairline, trailing down his cheek. Sam's arm swung up, hand searching, only to weakly flop back down into his lap. A terrible, sickening thing twisted in his belly and he swallowed shivering hard.

"You cold?"

"Little cold," Sam mumbled, eyes barely slitting open, dazed and confused.

Immediately a heavy warmth draped over him. Sam's fingers instinctively scrambled to fist the well-worn, rugged, yet supple texture he'd known for years; pulling the smell of cowhide tighter to his chest.

His head pounded terribly, staggering pain exploding like giant party favors. Sam scrunched his eyes up hoping to push the pain out his ears.

"You took a good knock to that over-sized noggin of yours." A soft object pressed to the side of his head.

"Ow." Sam flinched away.

"Just hold still."

Sam hated being told what to do. Always did. The more the rebel in him was told not to do something, the more rebel Sam was going to do that very something. This day was no different then any other. Well, okay, it was different. It was dark, cold and he hurt, but that didn't stop Sam from letting his rebellious side show as he struggled to stand.

"De...aaah!" The pain took Sam by surprise -- leaving him breathless.

"Stop moving!" Sam stiffened and wiggled. "Hey, I said... I don't want you to move!" Fussy hands restrained him. "You took a huge header and you can give yourself extra credit for a broken leg, pal."

"Gawd." Sam's voice was hoarse, even to him. His right leg had moved into position easily enough, but his left didn't seem to be part of his body any longer -- bound to the floor, fire burning deep inside. "Extra credit sucks," Sam groaned low in his throat.

"Sam." The one word calming him. "I've got you covered."

Sam slumped back and opened his eyes all the way, blinking through damp tousled hair. He glanced around taking stock of the situation. Took him a mere three seconds to remember what had happened, and less than that to figure out where here was now. He'd crashed through the floor. Landed hard far below, debris raining on top of him -- then Dean. If Walmart had a hell -- they were in it. The space was like a dingy, dark basement. Almost cave-like. Splattered with dirt, rock, dust, wires, metal beams, cobwebs and other junk that had obviously fallen in with them.

Sam's gaze racked over the form hunkered down beside him. "D'n."

"It's me." Dean's smiling face appeared, lit only by the fading beam of their one and only flashlight.

"It's always...alwalysyou," Sam coughed the dry tickle from his throat, taking in his brother's dust-coated features and worried eyes.

"You're finally awake," Dean babbled uneasily.

"My first mistake," Sam deadpanned.

"Not your first." Dean set the flashlight down. "Your first mistake was disobeying my orders. Told you to go." Dean said regrettably. "You warmer now?" he rubbed his palm up and down the length of Sam's arm.

"Warmer." Sam gave a small shake of his head. "Holy crap." Sam craned his neck. Up above was the shadowy crater they'd fallen from -- thirty feet, maybe more. Emergency lights flickered on and off, like a strobe light, offering a creepy glow below. Small pieces of debris still rained down, like bits and pieces of rock-hard candy. "We should get out of here."

"Oh, I don't know." Dean glanced around. "I rather like it here. Let's stay for cocktails, then we can watch the shadow-puppet show," Dean exclaimed, snidely.

"You hurt?" Sam ground his teeth together, pain tearing throug him.

"You make a great safety net, Sam." Dean let out a long breath. "Unlike you, princess 'help I'm falling'... just a little bruised."

"How are we going to get out of here, Dean?"

"Maybe my Spidey web-spinning abilities will kick in soon."

"You're a riot." Sam nudged himself up further ignoring the wise cracks."So really how are we g'...ahhh..." Sam suddenly cried. "M' leg." His eyes rolled backward, body going limp.

"Oh, no." Dean grabbed Sam by the shirt collar roughly with one hand pulling the kid up, tapping Sam's cheek vigorously with the palm of his other. "None of that, little brother."

"Gah." Sam's head tipped first to one side, then the other.

"Hey!" More cheek tapping.

"Wha'?" Sam's head bobbed weakly.

"Sam."

"Ah," Sam whimpered, eyes closed, head wobbling side- to- side.

"Sam, stop before your head falls right off!"

"We wouldn't…" Sam jerked his head up taking in a deep breath. "Wouldn't want that to happen." He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

"No, we would not," Dean added.

"Uhhh, feels like there's an axe in my bain."

"You're shocky, bro. You still with me?"

"Probably not," Sam said as he struggled to gain control of the jiggling and joggling.

"You're not going to be doing the Watoosy for awhile, hazel eyes."

Sam shot Dean a dirty look.

Dean held up a hand. "Just sayin'" He glanced down.

Sam followed Dean's gaze. His broken leg was crudely immobilized. A wooden baseball bat on one side. Twirling Barbie's sparkly baton on the other. Both held together against his leg by several very large ladies lacey, pink bras. Sam swallowed seeing the white of his exposed bone pushed up through muscle, tissue and nerve endings. The area was swollen badly and dark with severe bruising and had obviously, at one point, been bleeding.

"You playing Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman again, Dean?" Sam laughed, lightly.

"Dude." Dean frowned. "It's MacGyver rigged." Dean's face was poker straight, but his eyes glistened with worry.

"Whatever,"said togther at the same time.

"Your head hurt worse or your leg?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam whispered.

Dean nodded his understanding, running a hand through his short-cropped hair.

As if a light bulb popped on in his head, Sam stuck a hand in his pocket, searching.

"Forget it." Dean shot the idea clean through. "Not going to get a signal down here."

Sam whimpered, his throat straining, desperate to keep from puking. "Wonderfull." He let his hand fall at his side.

"This is some f'd up crap!" Dean punched at nothing but air, obviously frustrated.

"You think?" Sam glanced around.

Didn't look like any basement Sam had ever seen. It was difficult to imagine just a few short minutes ago they were shopping retail. Now they were wet and cold, their voices hollow. Sam's hand grazed over the ground beneath him -- jagged, cold, black rock.

"What is this place?" Sam asked, grimacing hard, chills going up and down his spine.

"I think it's where Walmart employees hang out on break, or maybe it's where they go to hide from horny grandmothers," Dean muttered sarcastically. "Just try to take it easy." He gripped Sam's shoulder.

"Where's the vending machines?" Sam asked. "Sandwiches? Coffee?" He looked down at his shirt covered in blood, the sight making him dizzy, adding to his confused state. " Who's…"

"Yours, college boy. Came from that gash on the side of your egghead," Dean informed. "Least it's not bleeding, anymore." Dean gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze. "Seriously, how you feel?"

"Seriously." Sam leaned his head back against rock, gazing topside. "Like I might puke."

"Yeah, well, seriously, don't. You puke... I puke. Them's the rules." Dean fumbled about beside him. "Here." Something heavy was placed in Sam's lap.

"What?" Sam swallowed, forcing himself not to be sick as he peered down.

"You remember how to use that, right, dork?" Dean patted the salt gun reverently. "Lucky I found the friggin' thng in this mess. Sight's probably off now, but she should still fire."

Without much thought, Sam took the weight into his hands. The sawed-off felt heavier than usual or maybe he felt heavier; Sam wasn't sure which. He was dazed and shaky, but could check a weapon blindfolded even shoot while standing on his head -- if he had to. "This all we got left?" Sam shivered, noting how low they were on salt shells.

Without taking his jacket off his shivering brother, Dean groped through the pockets for extra rounds. Then Sam's. "Our pissed-off ghost is still loitering around here someplace. We're easy pickings," he said coming up with three more salt pellets. "Keep alert. If you have to stand on your head blindfolded, Sam, you better not miss." He pocketed the rounds so Sam could get to them easily.

"Stop that." Sam cocked his head.

"Stop what?" Dean narrowed his eyes.

"You know what." Sam grimaced, Dean always in his head, reading his thoughts. Was like ocean swells thundering between his ears, making him feel sicker.

"Sam, you look sicker."

"That's what." Sam swallowed down on nothing, he really did get smacked in the head hard.

"Dude, you really did get smacked in the head hard."

"Just stop."

"Fine, I'll stop. Happy now?"

"Yes."

"Peachy."

"Super," Sam agreed, time to get serious.

"Super peachy," Dean stood. "Time to get serious."

Sam rolled his eyes…wondering if normal brothers were in each other's heads as much as they were.

"Look." Dean slowly wandered around their confines, disappearing in and out of the darkness. "Options are limited. Hopefully our pissed-off ghost stays away and someone heard all the ruckus..."He disappered into a dark corner, rumaging around. "Maybe called the police, fire and rescue." Dean came back into the light and froze, staring upward. "Looks like this place was built ontop a cave." Dean ran his fingers over a wet, rocky wall. "Unstable and uncool. What idiot didn't survey the lay of the land?"

"You could climb out, Dean. Get help," Sam suggested.

"How? Walls are slick and straight."

"Macgyver your way. Find a box of Legos and build a ladder," Sam muttered earnestly. "I don't think we want to be down here all night -- honored guests of a vengeful spirit."

Dean's gaze traced over the unstable rock considering the idea. He did a slow spin, studying the twisted criss-crossed wreckage around them. "Nah. Too risky." He glanced over at Sam. "Falling prices and all. Ha!" Dean laughed, slapping on his best and biggest, flashy-white smile.

"Dean, be serious."

"Going to get you topside, Butthead," Dean laughed tightly. "Serious enough for you, bro?"

"I'm Beavis. You're Butthead," Sam corrected.

* * *

Pain.

He was in pain.

When had he collapsed into unconsciousness and for how long?

Blinding and searing heat raced up and down Sam's broken leg -- and just who the hell was hammering nails inside his head? Sweat dripped off the tips of his bangs, slipping down to tickle and itch his nose. He was woozy, sick to his stomach, bewildered. The sweet smell of tanned leather -- the only thing that registered throug the pain.

"Mmmm." Sam barely could open his eyes, his trembling hand reaching up to rub the itch. So this was what paper doll cutouts felt like. Thin, boneless, weak. "Dean," Sam's voice echoed through the darkness.

There was a rustle of feet.

A thunk.

A pain filled curse.

Someone was next to him, real close, intruding on his personal space.

"Sam?"

Sam drew his eyebrows together. Sticky, cold perspiration dripped down the sides of his face and neck, down his back.

"Hmmmph." He shivered, leg twitching involuntarily.

"Hey." Cold knuckles brushed softly across Sam's cheek. "Right here, Sam."

"Hospital?" Sam's voice so low he wasn't sure he'd even said the word.

"Not unless you got one hiding in your Jean's pocket," Dean laughed, but his tone changed quick when Sam's whole body tensed. "Sh."

Sam gulped down air, the dark outline of Dean's face slowly fading in and out of focus. Crap. He was still propped against the rocky rubble, sawed-off held loose in his hands.

"'S dark," Sam muttered, trying to get a better grip on his weapon.

"Flashlight gave up about two hours ago," Dean pointed out.

"Two hours?" Sam was stunned. He'd been under for two hours. He wiggled to sit up. The pain in his leg white-hot -- shooting. He shook his head -- brilliant move. "Uhhh," Sam gasped harshly, slipping sideways.

"Stop trying to move, damnit!" Dean scolded, catching Sam with one hand.

"Bad habits … die hard." Sam hunched forward, bangs sweeping across his forehead.

"Sam!" Dean eased him back by his shoulders so their gazes met. "You going to pass out again?"

"Probably." Sam's head dipped, eyes slamming shut. All he wanted to do was sleep.

"Unacceptable, Sam! No more staring at the back of your eyelids." Dean cupped Sam's chin, holding his head up. "I won't stand for it." Sam's chin quivered in Dean's palm. "You hearing me?" Silence. "Answer me man?"

"No." Sam raised watery eyes to Dean.

"You're always that funny guy," Dean growled.

"You're always that bossy guy," Sam panted, gaining back some control.

"At least I look good," Dean chimed. "You look..."

"Pathetic." Sam smiled weakly.

"Pathetic works for you?" Dean frowned

"Worked on Jess...when all else failed," Sam said fondly.

"Yeah, buddy, I bet it did." Dean patted Sam's chest. "You good?" he whispered, letting go his hold.

"Good," Sam rasped, face glistening with the sheen of cold sweat. "Any sign of our ghost?" he asked, trying to distract himself from the twisted knots of pain coming from his leg.

"No, but I found this in the wall." Dean raised a large, bulky and ratty looking canvassed sack. "Must have been down here for decades by the looks of it. All that shake, rattle and rolling wasn't all bad."

"What…what's in it?" Sam clenched his teeth.

"From what I can see… Grant, Franklin, Mckinley, but mostly Cleveland." Dean chimed happily.

Sam cocked his head slightly to one side. "Dean, what are you talking…"

"Presidents, dude…on money."

"Buried treasure?" Sam eyed the sack suspiciously.

"Buried money." Dean waggled his brow. "This is the Old West, Sam," Dean reminded. "Train robbers, bank robbers, the gold rush." Dean smiled at his find, pointing to the faded, black lettering on the bag. "First Bank And Trust Company."

"There were a lot of stories, legends in this area of thieves burying their loot," Sam noted. "Hiding bags of money or gold in the hollow of trees and unknown caves. Getting caught or killed before they could cash in the loot." Sam paused, eyeing the sack with suspicion. "Allegedly."

"Alleged this." Dean opened the bag, digging in he pulled out a bill holding President Grover Cleveland up. "You ever see one of these, Sammy? That's a one thousand dollar bill, man. Well…" Dean grinned big. "I say…finders keepers."

"Well..." Sam shot Dean a serious look. "I say… that's probably the object holding our ghost here."

"How you figure?"

"Scarying off customers. Whispeing 'get out' Ghost doesn't want anyone finding it's stash. Cashing in. Best guess." Sam shook the dizziness from his head.

"Your best guess sucks, Sam. We're rich, man!"

"You know what we have to do, Dean."

"No! No,no,no-no-no-No!" Dean hugged the sack to his chest, like a security blanket. "Do you realize how many bags of M&Ms this buys? How many motel rooms, spark plugs, salt rounds, a lifetime subscription to Busty As…"

"Dean,." Sam rolled his eyes. "Come on, man. It's only money."

"Sammy, what you said," Dean tsked. "Besides, we don't know for sure…"

Suddenly, the ground beneath them started shaking again, fissuring at their feet and sending jagged pieces of fist-sized stone and wreckage dislodging and hitting the ground around them kicking up dust.

"You were saying?" Sam queried.

"Bite me!" Dean bellowed, looking up... "Shit." ...just in time to see a large chunk of rock headed straight for them."Son…of…a…" Dean brutally shoved Sam sideways.

"Gaaa!" Sam howled, pain tearing through his leg.

"Sorry," Dean's apology a rush of breath in his ear. "Sorry, Sam." He edged closer, dipping his upper body low, shielding Sam from the falling prices striking all around.

"Argh." Dean gasped.

"Dean!" Sam could feel Dean jolt, knew rubble was bouncing off his brother's back. "Dean!" He tried to move out from under, but Dean's weight pressed him further to the ground.

"It's okay. I'm okay. Sam, just stay put."

"The hell it is, Dean," Sam gasped for air, pointing a finger upward. "I don't think that's a model airplane doing spiral formations."

A cloud of fog whirled above them. The ghost flew around, an eerie voice screaming, "Stay away. Get out!" Casper -- the not so friendly -- screeched angrily.

"Dean, stop obsessing. You have to burn the money."

Everything stilled, the ghosts screech dying on a breeze.

Dean sighed and sat up, staring longingly at the money sack.

"Now!" Sam ordered as the ghost reappeared dive-bombing them like a hawk after two blind mice. Sam aimed the sawed-off upward and got a shot off. Rock salt blasted through the apparition -- driving Casper away -- for the time being.

"Sam, will you just give me a minute to…"

A minute wasn't long enough. Out of the darkness came a foggy hand, grabbing Sam by his good leg, yanking him away from Dean. Sending Sam flying backward, hitting something rock hard, weapon falling from his lax hand.

"Umph." Sam 's breath was knocked out of him. Pinned against the opposite wall, the hand of the angry spirit bore down on his chest.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, scrambling to his feet as the hole they were in began to shake, rattle, and roll again.

"D'n," Sam's mouth opened and closed trying to find air, trying to free himself. The harder he tried, the harder he was pressed against the rock -- cutting off more of his air. "Gaaa," he gagged, tilting his head one way then the other, wheezing for breath.

"Sam, hold on!" Dean yelled above the cracking sound of rock.

"H...hurry." Sam's vision distorted, but he swore he heard the click, click of Dean's lighter and the wail of a dying scream just before everything went ebony black.

* * *

Sam was numbingly cold. He wished for a hot drink, but all that came to him was a little saliva dragging down his throat, like he swallowed a fishhook. It was super dark. His eyes darted back and forth searching for a bright spot only finding blackness. He hurt everywhere and wanted to leave this awful place, but he didn't have a car, eyesight -- legs. He heard sirens in the distance. The drip, drip of water. The crumbling of rock, the hum of Metallica. Sam sensed he wasn't alone at the same time warm fingers rubbed across his frozen knuckles. The touch caused him to tremble as if he was lying on a bed of icicles.

More humming, a tune he didn't recognize, words he couldn't understand. Man, someone needed to learn English. The sirens stopped and Sam floated on the unknown song, dreaming dreams he couldn't quite put a finger on. Through the darkness, he kept getting glimpses of two green eyes -- staring at him. He knew those eyes, but Sam couldn't latch onto them for any length of time.

"You okay down there?" A strange voice echoed from far above.

Sam frowned.

"Hello!' The voice came again.

Sam tried to open his eyes. Maybe he'd imagined the voice.

"Can you see our lights? Anybody down there?"

Sam tried again to look around, answer the voice. He couldn't see for crap-- everything still dark -- a big, black -- nothing -- except for sound.

"I see you." A new voice, raw with pain.

"How many of you are there?"

"Two. My brother's hurt."

Sam's fingers flexed, digging against rock.

"How bad?"

"His leg's broken, maybe a concussion."

Sam wanted to join the party -- seeing that the party seemed to be all about him, but the party sounded so far away. He strained every muscle, but still couldn't escape the black nothing he was trapped in.

"Is he conscious?"

"Sam? Sammy." Gentle fingers tapped his cheek. "Wakie, wakie, we got company."

"Ah," Sam groaned, shrugging off the annoying hands that were shaking him.

"He's not really hearing me."

"Just keep him warm and still. You're pretty far down. Give us fifteen, we're coming for you."

Sam's eyes flicked open, only seeing dark shadows, he groaned, shutting them again.

"Sam." The wind breezed through his hair, or was that a ghostly hand? "Sam, you in there?"

"Uuuuuuh!" Sam gasped awake, his heart pumping fast, eye's growing wide. "What?"

"Sam, calm down!"

Sam looked left, looked right, shocked, confused.

"Sam! Easy! Look at me!" A firm hand gripped his chin, tilting his head up "Sam."

Two green eyes, short cropped hair, charm dangling from a corded rope, the smell of leather, and a silly 'hi there' grin.

"Hmmmm." Sam breathed a sigh, rubbing at his eyes, clearing his vision. His head was resting in the folded curve of someone's arm. That someone was rocking him back and forth in a claming way. "It's..." Sam blinked. "It's…" He knew the name, but his scattered brain couldn't get the word out his mouth. "It's you."

"It's always me." Dean kept right on smiling.

"What…did you…um?" Sam's throat clenched as much as his brain. "Dean?" Sam questioned.

"Well, yeah," Dean chuckled, taking Sam's hand and squeezing.

"Dean," Sam repeated, confirming his own realization.

A streak of light shined down, stinging Sam's eyes. He could make out Dean's face. Pale, tierd, red stuff leaking out a gash over his left eye. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

"What…uhhhh…" Sam let out a groan. "What happened?"

"Won't be buying that lifetime subscription."

"Huh?"

"We're back to being poor, Sam, that's what happened."

"The Presidents?" Sam inquired.

"Got a boot in the ass. Ha! All burned up,"Dean choked out. "Ghost is gone. You were right -- again," Dean drawled unhappily.

"Right." Sam shook his head. "Oh, damn." Sam gnashed his teeth, looking away, not trusting himself to keep a stoic face.

"Sam?"

"I'm okay." Sam bit back the pain. "Just wondering where we are?" He grimaced.

"Really?" Dean asked. " Isn't it obvious?"

"We're still here?" Sam turned back toward Dean. His watery eyes peered upward -- wondering -- the height was dizzying as he recalled the downward spiral through nothing but air.

"Wonder no more, little brother. Didn't want to miss the shadow puppet show," Dean laughed softly.

Sam's stomach churned and he tried to sit up, blood draining from his face, making him sick. "Don't want to be here. Next time we go hunt Wally Gator in New York."

"I'm on it. We'll be out of here soon, Sam. You can hook up with Hazel, like your eyes. " Dean laughed. "Have cheap sex." A smug grin spread across Dean's face.

"Arrrhg," Sam gagged, struggling to breath through the pain in his leg or was the pain in his head?

"She's not that bad, Sam. You just need a few lessons in charm." Dean gently hiked Sam up, held him tighter.

"Aaaah -- hhhh," Sam moaned, head wobbling in the crook of Dean's arm. "Gaah." Sam held his hand out -- Dean grabbed it. "I...my...I..." Sam's eyes rolled half-way up then back again "Hurt."

"Sh." Dean bowed his head. "Sammy."

"D'n." Sam reached up with his other hand, grabbing a fist full of Dean and pulling him down closer, fingers flexing weakly in Dean's shirt, sucking in breath after breath. Trying to swallow the sick feeling. His head was about to explode, and his twisted leg sent pain radiating throughout his body, his chest feeling heavier with each breath he took. "Uhhh," Sam choked and sputtered.

"Kiddo, you're worrying me here. Looking a bit like the day you hatched. All wrinkled, smothered in goats cheese," Dean's quiet laugh quickly stopped as Sam's fingernails dug into his skin. "Easy, bro. I know you're hurting bad, just take a deep breath." Dean's look serious, tone, an order.

"'Kay." Sam took in a ragged breath.

"Now hold it." Dean placed a hand against Sam's chest "Right there." He pressed down.

Sam's gaze kept locked on Dean's scowling face, he did as he was told -- held the air tight in his chest.

"That's my boy, keep holding onto it." Dean rubbed circles -- round and round.

Sam inclined his head back over Dean's arm, feeling the pain being pulled out of him, vanishing under brotherly magic.

"Okay." Dean's hand stopped, palm flat, fingers splayed across Sam's chest. "Let it out, hazel eyes." Dean eased up on the pressure.

"Soooo..." Sam blew out a long puff of air. "...N...not…gaaa," Sam gagged. "Funny."

"Sorry, man, it's all right," Dean whispered, a gentled hand now rubbing up and down the length of his arm. "Just hold on. Their coming for us any minute. You going to puke or pass out?"

"Yeah." Sam gave a long, heavy sigh sinking back against Dean.

'On three," Dean held out a fisted hand.

"What? No," Sam muttered.

"Come on, Sammy, only one way to settle this. "On three," Dean insisted. "I win, you don't pass out or puke. You win, I don't pass out or puke."

"Fine." Sam held out his own fisted hand

"One," Dean counted, like always, the tempo of their fists matched the count "Two, three."

Like always Sam threw -- rock.

And like always Dean threw -- scissors.

"You win. kiddo."

"Either way, I don't get to pass out or puke." Sam twitched, shivering violently as he slumped further against Dean, eyes closing.

"Good point." Dean didn't say anything more, just nodded to hugged Sam tighter, nestling him gently against his chest.

"Ugn." Sam could sense himself growing heavy, his breathing slow.

"Damn it, Sammy," Dean uttered under his breath. "What are you guys doing up there!" Dean shouted. "The friggin' Hokey Pokey?"

"Dean. Take it easy." Sam's eyes listlessly rolled open. "Just a broken leg."

"Yeah, and we were just about rich as thieves," Dean deadpanned.

"We're coming. Gimme some slack!" a voice shot out of the dark. A few stones dislodged from the movement above, falling, banging around them.

"Son of a bitch, watch it!" Dean yelled, hunching over Sam.

"Already rich, Dean." Sam's eyes grew heavy falling shut. "Got each other," he exhaled.

"Shut up, cupcake." Dean sat back.

"Hazel eyes," Sam corrected.

"Shut up, hazel eyes."

"You shut up, Cheeto breath."

"Clever, Sam."

"Dean, how we going to explain breaking into Walmart to these guys?" Sam asked, eyes still shut.

"Didn't break in, fell in," Dean sniggered. "I buried the sawed-off. Going to get you patched up, and make our great escape," Dean soothed. "Here they are, pal, we'll be topside soon. Don't worry about anything. Got us covered"

"Like always," Sam breathed.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, little brother." The last thing Sam heard before passing out.

**Note: Actually was ending story here…but added an extra bit of (post scriptum -- PS --) fluff. Thank you much for the alerts and for your lovely time and care in reading. Truly! **

* * *

**Epilogue: **

Sam slid off the bed, fumbling to position his crutches under his armpits. Half hunched over, he slowly hobbled his way toward the bathroom, like a drunk staggering out of a bar.

After a lot of awkward T.C.B (taking care of business) Sam leaned against the vanity, staring at his unshaven self in the mirror. He looked like hell -- felt like hell, too. Sweaty. Dizzy. Weak. Beaten. Like he'd fallen through a crack in the earth and landed hard in a heap of tangled debris. But wait…he had. He tried to straighten his hunched shoulders, but the effort was just too much. He continued to lean against the sink, staring blankly at his reflection. Whitewashed skin, dark purple-black rings racooned under his eyes, and worse, his hair stood on end. He wanted to slick the unruliness down but didn't have the strength. Just twenty some hours ago, he'd been pulled from the rubble that was once Walmart. His concussed head stitched up, broken leg put in a cast. Before the plaster was even dry, Dean had whisked them off to the next town. Like always, he could heal in the comfort of a crappy motel room. Under the watchful hawk-eye of his brother.

Sam unsteadily made his way out of the john getting as far as the doorjamb before he felt himself swoon. He stared across the room. How'd his bed get to be millions of miles away? And just where was Hawk-eye? Oh, yeah, like always, Dean had gone for breakfast. Told him to stay put. If Sam didn't feel so sick. If his leg wasn't broken and his head in a soupy, melted-chocolate fog, he might have kicked his rebel self in the ass for not listening.

Sam gulped, bowing his head and staring at the fluffy, baby-blue carpet that now spun like batch after batch of sticky, cotton candy.

Sam slammed his eyes shut. Staggering and swaying, fighting to keep hold of the doorjamb, hold onto what balance he had left. An intense pain flashed through his leg as he continued to wobble dangerously.

"Gaa," he moaned, hearing the Impala pull into the parking spot just outside their motel room door; the sound of loud music filling the air.

Sam cracked open one eye when the door opened -- Dean hidden behind an armful of bags.

"So, I got us everything we'll need for a few more days." Dean clumsily made his way over to the small dinette table. Dropping the packages, he turned to face the empty bed. His eyes quickly averted to… "Sam! What the friggin' hell, man!"

"Asking myself…" panting heavily. "…Same thing." Sam's eyes did a little dance and roll.

"Ho, ho, hey!" Dean raced forward.

Sam slinked toward the ground, crutches falling wayside, falling right into Dean's arms.

"Gottcha." Dean announced proudly, draging the kid up. "I can't believe you." He pulled Sam close.

"Believe me," Sam mumbled.

"Your rebel self still thinks you can do it all, I see," Dean huffed, taking Sam step after slow step back toward the bed.

"Your bossy self still think you're…you're all that, I see," Sam shot back.

"Dude! I am all that." Dean lowered Sam flat to the bed. "Hazel eyes," he added with a smirk.

"So that's how it is?" Sam grimaced as another sharp pain rain up his leg.

"Yes." Dean bent down to grab the pillows that had fallen onto the floor." That's how it is." He slipped a hand behind Sam raising him just enough to tuck the fluff back under his head. "There you go, kiddo."

"Tanks," Sam slurred, utterly exhausted.

"Velcome." Dean winked. "How you feelin'?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning down close.

Wet, pet shop-window puppy eyes blinked tiredly up at Dean. "Green," Sam admitted, feeling sick.

Dean pulled back. "Like my eyes?" he chuckled, breaking into a smile.

"Um-hmm." Sam nodded groggily.

"You're such a whiny girl, bro." Dean patted Sam's chest lightly. "How about something to eat? Think you can handle a few crackers, tea?"

"No." Sam frowned.

"Sam, you have to eat something."

"Just…" Sam emit a soft sigh. "No."

Dean held out a clenched fist. "I win. You eat."

Sam took the bait. "I win." He raised a shaky hand balling his fingers into a loose fist. "You don't ever call me hazel eyes again."

Deal made.

"On three."

Like always, Dean called off the sanctified words.

"One."

Like always, the tempo of their fists matched the count.

"Two."

Like always Sam watched Dean closely.

"Three."

Like always, well almost always, Sam threw rock.

And like… Dean threw -- rock?

A tie?

"What the shit!" Both shouted in unison.

That never happened before.

"Now what?" Sam asked, hand flopping down to the bed and wondering just exactly when he'd lost his gaming powers.

"Look," Dean grumbled. "You eat two crackers and drink some tea… I won't call you hazel eyes for a week. Deal?

"Um-hmmm." Sam agreed, too tired to argue or wonder any longer.

Dean got up and opened a box of crackers, pulling one saltine out he shook his head and frowned. He took several more crackers out of the package examining each one, eyes going wider in what appeared to Sam to be shock.

"Wha' is it?" Sam pushed himself up a little higher on the pillows.

"Dude!" Dean turned toward Sam a shocked 'WTF' look on his face. "You can't eat these."

"Why not?"

Dean held a cracker up. "I see Bonham's face," he said in all seriousness.

Like always, Sam just rolled his eyes.

The end.

Sorry 'bout that….LOL…couldn't resist.


End file.
